


winning a losing battle

by JaguarCello



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anorexia, Bulimia, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, M/M, Self Harm, This will be cheerful at some point I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being empty, Loki has found, makes him feel happy. Tony Stark, on the other hand, finds it difficult to feel happy without a bottle in his hand.<br/>Their friends just worry about the inevitable train-wreck which is bound to happen, as soon as the glamour of self-destruction is shattered with hospital beds and broken sobs and black eyes. </p><p>(trigger warning: deals in detail with many aspects of both anorexia and bulimia, including purging, BMI and possibly statistics)</p>
            </blockquote>





	winning a losing battle

**Author's Note:**

> I ate too much today so 
> 
> I'm a fuck-up. Apologies. 
> 
> Anyway this is going to be long and angst-ridden, as is typical in any of my fics. Please, please, heed the warnings. It could trigger someone and I would not want that.

Loki knew, with a certainty that turns his food to ash in his mouth and his stomach to lead, that he was once again fat. He knew as well that he was supposed to be better now - but a year of supposed recovery, of matching Thor pie for pie or pint for pint and only throwing up when he had drunk himself into oblivion again with Tony Stark, had made his cheeks fuller and his hair stronger. It had also made him, he knew, _fat_. Gently curving bone had been replaced by loathsome flesh; his legs had more muscle on them from riding both horses and anyone he could find. He was too heavy, his BMI had crept back up to what was definitely  _heathy_ and people had told him he "looked well". He was far, far too heavy. 

He lit a cigarette, and stared into the fridge.

Eggs crammed up next to half-a-shelf of cheese, milk crowded with the orange juice and half a bottle of white wine, a platter of smoked salmon on its side between packets of full-fat yoghurts, boxes upon boxes of leftovers – pasta, chicken, potato salad swimming in mayonnaise – and he swallowed. With shaking hands, he took the pasta out of the fridge and ripped the lid off.

 It was in some sort of tomato sauce, thick and creamy, with small pieces of bacon. He turned it round, examining it like a squirrel decides upon the best way to crack into a nut, and thought about eating it. He thought about it soaking into his already-lumpen thighs, and plumping up his arms, and covering his stomach, and then about it sinking into his fingers through the plastic pot. He shoved his trousers down viciously, and pulled his shirt up, and looked down at his body in the half-light of the fridge.

Loki looked at his sausage-like fingers, his chubby arms, the vast hillside of his stomach, the dimpled flesh of his thighs, his softly padded feet.  He put the pasta back into the fridge, and washed his hands three times, just in case. Food, he reminded himself, was something that other people needed. He could override this instinct, could force himself to be civilised. After all, he reasoned, he had done it before.

Thor walked into the room just then, shoes on and his bag slung around one shoulders. Loki opened the fridge and then shut it again, twice.

“You must hurry, Loki,” he said, and grabbed his lunch money from the sideboard. He caught sight of the cigarette in Loki’s hand, and sighed. “You know you’re not supposed to smoke in here,” he said, and Loki scowled, stubbing the cigarette out on his jacket. Thor sighed again, louder this time.

“Better than on my arm,” Loki reminded him, and tugged his jacket cuffs further down his hands until only his fingers could be seen. Thor looked away, and then slung his bag across his shoulders.

“We have to go,” he said, but he kept stealing glances at Loki’s leather-covered arms.

Loki nodded, and picked up his bag as well, shoving his feet into battered boots and half-lunging for his bag, and the door slammed shut behind them.

“You’re not very talkative this morning,” Thor began, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at Loki.

Loki shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper until it spiralled out between his fingers. “You’re not much of a conversationalist at the best of times, “ he said, and allowed the smallest smirk to play around his lips.

There was a pause, as Thor pretended to be engaged with the road, and Loki pretended to be interested in the frosted spiders’ webs and icy pine trees that lined the route. The sky was a crisp blue, and the trees were bare.

“Do you remember,” Loki said, and Thor shifted his eyes over for a split second, “when I nearly won that eating competition? When we were staying in Utgard – you had to do some weight-lifting, I think.”

Thor laughed. “Yes, and wrestling too. We both lost, didn’t we? I was beaten by an old woman, but then she was as old as day and strong as night.” Loki looked at him, and he shrugged. “I’m not taking your crown as wordsmith! That’s what she told me. But yes, you ate half a cow or something, didn’t you? I mean, you always were a big eater, even when we were little. I seem to remember you catching salmon, and there was a huge furore when we realised they were not yours to catch – that was a hefty fine! You used to eat more than I did,” and he laughed again.

Loki looked straight ahead, and rubbed his hands on his knees, before pressing a finger just below his ribcage– sinking into all the flesh, he reminded himself – until his stomach roiled. “I feel sick,” he said, and then louder, “Thor! I’m going to be sick!” Thor risked a glance at him, and he must have looked awful enough that Thor pulled over to the hard shoulder without speaking, and shoved the car door open.

Loki stumbled out of the car, boots slipping on the frost, and vomited in a ditch with a hideous gulping sound. Chunks of half-digested food, what might have been peas, noodles, chicken, and then last the Doritos from last night. He shuddered, eyes streaming and spat out a puddle of bile onto the ground, heaving for breath.

“Loki?” Thor had got out of the car, as well, and he handed Loki a hanky. Loki took it with shaking hands and wiped his face, before dragging himself upright again. He pulled his jacket back over his arms to scrub angrily at the tears that were coursing sullenly down his cheeks.

“I’m _fine._ Come on, we’re going to be late,” was all he said, and got back into the car. He was still breathing heavily, and his face was sallow.

“Loki –“ Thor tried again, but Loki reached out and flipped on the radio – angry snarling barely attached to a tune, but he turned the volume up as high as it would go. Thor got the hint, and started driving.

 


End file.
